Selected quad for the lemma: sense_n
Text snippets containing the quad
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Author |
Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication) |
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A62985
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The Tory-poets a satyr.
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Shadwell, Thomas, 1642?-1692.
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1682
(1682)
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Wing T1948; ESTC R7686
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8,838
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19
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his fancies be He can speak Treason and fart Loyalty From such fleet wills kind Heaven deliver me Read but his Plays and what else e're he writ You 'l find but little Judgment and less Wit If he dull Ravenscroft by chance excel Thanks to old Nokes that humours it so well Thanks to the Scenes and Musick for his Wit Thanks to the Whores lie squeeking in the Pit That Bullies cannot hear yet praise the Fact And bravely Clap the Actor not the Act. Shadwel and Settle are both Fools to Bays They have no bawdy Prologues to their Plays These silly Villains under a pretence Of wit deceive us and like men write sence Alas says Bays what are your Wies to me Chapman's a sad dul Rogue at Comedy Shirley's an Ass to write at such a rate But I excel the whole Triumverate In all my worthy Plays shew if you can Such a rough Character as Solyman But though I have no Plot and Verse be rough I say 't is Wit and that sure is enough The Lawrel makes a Wit a Brave the Sword And all are wise men at a Councel board S le's a Coward 'cause fool Ut y fought him And Mul ve is a Wit because I taught him So Hectors Bays ' til one would think 't was fit That none but Fools should write or judge of Wit His pigmie wit and little infant sence Rightly defin'd is nought but impudence His lines are weak though of lewd Catches full And naught is strong about him but his Scull The brave defensive head peice of a Fool. Of all mean Hackney Jades I 'de never use This Mercenary party coulor'd Muse Who e're beholds he strait must needs confess She 's clad at once in home and forreign dress Read Dry ns plays and read Cornille's too You 'l swear the Frenchman speaks good English now 'Mongst borrowed Sense some airy flashes drop To please the feeble Females and the Fop So soft and gentle flourishes do move The weak admiring Maid and fire Love Quickens the dizzy Soul with Love beset And tamely draws it to the Golden Net Stupid it lies and senceless of its pain And kindly kisses the bewitching Chain Cupid's the God and Love is all the Song The blest Elysium of the sportful young But eas'd of this so kind so grateful pain And brought unto it's former sense again The glimmering Lamp in lustre once so bright Looks like the Torches of eternal night The amorous paths with sweets inchanted strown Looks like Aâ—cyna when her paint was gone That wit upon the Stage cry'd up to day To morrow in the Closet's thrown away Wit tho with glory it may chance to rise And mounting seem to kiss the very skies Yet if above the bounds of Sense it get It is all wind and is no longer wit But Bays in all his wit is stanch and sound Tho in it all there 's no proportion found But what he speaks or writes or does amiss It is all wit but why because 't is his 'T is wit in him if he all Sense oppose 'T was wit in D'avenant too to lose his Nose If so then Bays is D'avenants wisest Son After so many claps to keep his on But who but Fools would praise dull Ot ys strains Compos'd with little wit and lesser pains Whose fiery face doth dart as hot a ray As the fierce warmer of a Summers day Whose very looks would drive the Fiends away He may so painted with the juice of Vines Turn his Invectives to the praise of Wines Love is a pitteous God and Honour 's grown To such a height it is almost unknown Immortal beauty drown'd in quiet lies And spends all its charms on its owners Eyes But Wine do's now the Poets breast inspire Wine that doth kindle all our youthful fire Wine that makes Oâ— y write and Fools admire His Verse of Wine stinks worse than bawdy Punk For he never writes a Verse but when he is drunk Sure thou wast drunk when in Pindarick strain 'Gainst Libels didst thy dull Muse complain But why didst term it Satyr Satyr tart And piercing Verse that wounds unto the heart But thou got dully drunk ore a Pint Pot Forget's thy Subject like a drunken Sot And ' stead of Satyr didst unto the praise Of those that beat the Dutch a Poem raise The drowzy heavy Hollander as well May chant his Poems and his Fortunes tell Their Fleet as good their men as strong as ours The difference lyes but in the Governors Theirs only win by Guns by Ships by might Ours grew Politicians in the fight And with their tricks at Land did them perplex By building awful Sconces on their decks Environ'd round with sturdy Cable stood Defying bullets still maintain'd the fight Thy brains immur'd with a thick Scull as good As bravely dost this bravest act recite As Castlemain the Victory doth rehearse In falsest Prose thou dost confirm in Verse So when 't was in Dispute in lowest shades where the foyl'd Seaman in new Rivers wades Who justly should the warlike Trophies bear Whether the English or the Hollander Some Ships of ours did meerly out of spight Dive down to prove it was our lawful right Kind hearted Ot y that does Garlands give To beaten Seamen while thy self dost greive Languish and Pine and no man will allow Nought but a wreath of Hemp t' adorn thy brow Ah! but with bawdy Plays and Prologues lewd Thou hast the art to please the multitude The claping rable that on your third days Come to extol and clap your silly Plays Worse then a Sodoms Farce or Smithfield Droll Nothing so Beastly Baudy or so dull If Ignoramus Iuries once be nam'd That thredbare Subject on the Stage so fam'd 'T is tost about with Claps and praiseful knocks ' Til 't bound from Knaves in Pit to Fools in Box. Such stupid humours now the Gallants seize Women and Boys may write and yet may please Poetess Afra thought she 's damn'd to day To morrow will put up another Play And Ot y must be Pimp to set her off Lest the enraged Bully scoul and scoff And hiss and laugh and give not such applause To th' City-heresie as the good Old Cause You 're baulkt worse there then at a City Feast To part with stolen half-Crown for no jest Sham treats you may have paid for o're and o're But who e're paid for a Sham-Play before Tories are just and give the Devil his due Won't damn a Poets Play because 't is new Because it treasts of Whiggs and tells fine stories To please the monkey Courtiers little Tories Tells how the Whiggs with might and force repair To build damn'd stony Castles in the air From whence the Court Hobgoblings they will slay With Guns invented since full many a day How by their necromantick arts they raise Fortyfied Cetadels in all by-ways Millions of Souldiers lodg in hives like Bees And many millions more in hollow trees Where for a fit occasion they do wait